


Straightjacket~Deathshipping

by YuuGiOKaeri



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Deathshipping, Halloween Special, M/M, Tendershipping, whatever the hell I felt like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-01-06 23:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12221535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuuGiOKaeri/pseuds/YuuGiOKaeri
Summary: "It says here you have. . .'murderous tendencies'? Tell me about that, please."~~~Melvin Ishtar is insane. Ryou Bakura is a therapist.And this is their story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rinfantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinfantasy/gifts).



I adjusted my glasses, sitting on the plush chair nailed securely to the floor. The walls were padded, the quiet comforting. Well enough I knew this room, as I saw it everyday as my nine-to-five.

The sound of locks being undone alerted me to the fact that my client was coming. A moment later, Melvin Ishtar was ushered inside. He didn't look like my normal patients, I noted.

He carried himself proudly, head straight up, posture slightly slouching carelessly when he sat. Violet eyes burned out from dark skin, a pile of (over) spiked hair above, spilling at a few points into his eyes. Interesting. Also, he lacked a stare of vacancy, those eyes instead clouded with something blindly hating. It unsettled one easily; he was supposed to be _insane_ , after all.

Locks clicked, I felt a nervous gaze from behind. They had advised a glass section between us during our sessions, but I denied it, per usual.

"So," I said, squinting at my clipboard, "Melvin Ishtar—that's your name?"

"Correct, _good_ job." His voice was deep, rumbling into my bones. Something in my notes had said he had a peculiar voice, but this didn't seem odd to me. I crossed the text out with my pen.

"Oh, um, good! I'm Dr Ryou Bakura, your new therapist, since your previous one. . .committed suicide, so um—!"

Melvin smiled. "I know. He was fun to play with."

An unease placed itself in my stomach. He couldn't possibly be as insane as these pages said, or his medications were working very well. "Right," I said, "okay. Melvin, you've been diagnosed with split-personality disorder and you are currently taking pills for this ailment, yes?"

"Sure," he said. Suddenly his voice had taken on a new quality, sounding like two voices overlapping into the same words. The noise drove panic ricocheting through my skull. _The peculiar voice note,_ I thought.

"O-Okaaaay. Nice to meet you, Melvin. Our sessions will be on Mondays and Thursdays, three to four," I said, sighing slowly. "You ready to start our first session?"

"I'm always ready to play with my prey, Doctor," he said, a shape on his forehead forming. I stared, as the shape fully formed, bright yellow light issuing from it—the eye of Horus. Never had I seen something even close to this, part of the reason I'd regarded the notes on Melvin as utter crap. But here was proof, notes of two dead men who'd come before me as witness to a miracle of hideous nature. "But the question is," Melvin went on, "are _you_ ready?"


	2. Chapter 2

A spike of anxiety arose in my stomach. I was Melvin's third therapist, the previous two having committed suicide—what did that say of him. . .and my fate?

"You've been here how long?" I asked, pulling at the collar of my button-down shirt.

"Three months." That same smile. "Scared, are we, Doctor? No? Not yet?"

"What's there to be scared of?" I asked, leaning back. They usually weren't like this. More broken, maybe.

Melvin's smile fell slack, dictator-purple eyes focusing harshly on my face. "Nothing, really. Nothing at all."

"Um, yes, Melvin," I said, "you've been here a while. Do you feel any closer to recovery? Also it says here that you have. . .'murderous tendencies'? Tell me about that, please."

An expression of loving fondness for his murderous tendencies overtook Melvin's face. "Some people have boring hobbies, like hooking up to Ethernet and playing stupid, worthless, boring video games. But I'm more productive with my time, which I spend in axe, chainsaw or just good-old-fashioned sneak-attack-stab-you-with-a-knife murdering."

I raised an eyebrow, scribbling down what he said. "Of course. Anyway, how much longer do you think you'll be here?"

"I don't care." Melvin shifted in his seat, looking at the walls. "They can keep me here forever."

"You don't care? Why not?" I asked, adding my own note to his extensive stack of papers: _Seems to have fully-functioning mental capabilities._

He shrugged, the bright eye on his forehead glaring at me. "As long as they keep sending me therapists, I'm entertained enough. It'll be when I stop getting to play with my toys when I'll want to get out."

"So you hold the view that people are, what, mere play-things?"

"Yes."

"Alright-y," I said, looking at my watch. Just over half-an-hour to go. Great. But Melvin had intrigued my professional senses, given that he seemed the most clear-minded insane person I'd met in my four years at this asylum.

If it weren't for yammering about murderous tendencies, not to mention the eye on his forehead (seriously, what was _that_?), he'd probably be ready for release in less than a month. As it was, I estimated at least another four months.

As of yet, this first was just allowing myself to be accustomed  to my patient's personality, for all it was. Blazing eyes and everything. "Melvin, do you have any friends? Have you ever had any? Tell me about them, whether they be from here or the outside.

Melvin Ishtar laughed, voice ringing harshly through the room. "I don't make any of those, Doctor. Haven't the time or need for 'em. All I have is victims and previous one-night lovers."

I grimaced. A long half-hour laid ahead of me.

 


	3. Chapter 3

I finished out the session with calm questions, such as "what's your favourite colour?" in order to establish a greater sense of trust between Melvin and I. His answers were straight to the point, with his eyes, all three, glowering ahead.

After that, I hadn't anyone else to see, so I went home, taking the train. In the crowded space of a small train car, I reviewed Melvin's records. At one point, he'd been on depression meds, but his mood swings had taken a violent/aggressive turn from there.

Also, there was a strange post-it note from the first therapist on his medical records: _Claims to not be the original persona of his body, having sent the first to the depths of hell._ Directly after the date on the note, Melvin was put on Multiple Personality Disorder meds.

Walking home from the station, I looped one earbud into my ear before playing the paused file on my mobile. Music trickled through from the device, adding pleasant background to my Melvin Ishtar-centred thoughts. After fifteen minutes, my home came into sight and I went to the door, breathing deep.

But I noticed that my door was unlocked. _I know I locked it this morning,_ I thought, frantically shoving inside. My blood turned to ice.

"You're home early."The gruff voice that greeted me issued from Yami Bakura,the man who bore a just close enough resemblance to me to unsettle me. Also, our last names were the same—but we weren't related.

"Bakura," I replied, clutching my phone, exiting the music player. "How'd you get in?"

He snorted, standing from my counter, drawing closer. I flinched, finger straying to the **Call** button. "You gave me a spare key in November, remember? It's only been six months, Ryou."

"Leave." I opened the door as well as my free palm. "Give me then key then go home."

"What changed?" he said, fingers sliding over my empty hand. "You loved me; or did you forget that, too?"

I pulled away, moving into posistion to shove him out. "Please leave," I begged, leaning my weight into a shove. Bakura turned, grabbing my shoulders. His eyes held a warning that made me freeze.

"Ryou. I still want you, so what's your problem?" He leaned close—too close—pinning my arms. In one motion, I broke away, pushing him onto the porch.

"I have someone else now!" I said, lying, as I slammed the door. I locked it, then forced my weight against it. In my ears, and against my closed eyelids, a high heart-rate pulsed. For ten minutes, I stayed there, afraid he'd burst in easily.

But he didn't.

I sank to the floor, shaking. So, it was time to change the locks.


	4. Chapter 4

An nervous assistant, my personal one, laid his hand on my arm. "Doctor Bakura is here, Mr Ishtar."

"Melvin, please," I purred. He averted his grey eyes, pulling me along to the therapy room, where the good doctor was already waiting. He looked up from that clipboard, brown eyes shining in anxiety. Really, had I made that much of an impression on Monday? That'd be the fastest I'd impacted a therapist.

 _Damn,_ I thought, sitting, _a new personal record. Well done, me._

"I think today we'll get straight into it," Dr Bakura said. "Ah, if you could tell me about your early life?"

"You admit we've been shying away from 'it,' then? What _is_ 'it,' anyway, Doctor?" I neglected to answer his question, trying to pull him into one of my favourite games.

"I, well, umm. . ." he stuttered out, pen tapping the clipboard in a steady, fast rhythm. _Tap, taptap, tap_. He was shifting too much, gaze jumping everywhere. "'It' is what 'it' is, I guess. Please, if you'll just answer my question."

Displeasure permeated my gut; he was anxious from something other than me, given his impatience. "What's got you in such a tizzy, Ryou?" I asked, skipping over titles. This seemed to cut straight to him, for those big brown eyes went wide, his movements ceased.

"That's not the answer!" he squeaked, looking at his watch. I frowned. Usually I mesmerised my prey, like the stupid snake from _Jungle Book_.  Damn, yes, I was a bloody python.

"It's a valid question, though, isn't it?" I asked, watching his face contort into an expression of exasperation. He _was_ cute, for sure, and probably wouldn't be too bad in bed. He had that, at least--the other therapists had no good physical qualities. Now, though, there were chocolate eyes peering out of thick plastic glasses frames and soft white hair spilling to mid-back length. Ryou Bakura wasn't seventy-two, like Miles Reacher, the first therapist, either.

If I had a chance, then, I'd screw him before killing him.

"We're here to help _you_ , Melvin, not _me_." Dr Bakura frowned, rubbing at his right cheekbone.

"So you need help?" I slid forward, awkwardly, due to the constraints about my arms. "If you tell me, I'll tell you."

Now, he weighed his options. I could almost hear his simple brain working hard to think; we cam run around the point all hour or I could share some made-up limey crap, like _'oh we were out of tea this morning, and I talk in the royal we, like the queen! How not lovely! Blimey!'_

"I know if you're lying," I said when he opened his mouth. His face coloured and he sighed.

"Fine. One of my old patients has been pestering me. That's all. Now, tell me about your early life."

"I was born in a circus ring," I began, "to a camel mother and elephant father. Their love was forbidden. . ."

Like hell I was telling him anything.


	5. Chapter 5

My Monday schedule was the same Monday as every Monday's schedule: Everybody's up at 8.30, then wrestled down to breakfast at 9.00. After that, each is given his own meds, then mouths were checked to be sure we'd taken them. I however hid the pill in front of my bottom left molar, where my assistant didn't usually check, too busy in being frightened of me.

When I got back to my room at 10.00, I spit the pill into my pillowcase, since an assistant would always accompany me to the toilet, meaning I couldn't spit it there. I already had quite a pile; slobbered-on pills would probably fetch a good price when I decided to leave.

And I could leave whenever I wanted--I knew the layout of this place to every dust-mote. More importantly, I knew a certain way to wriggle and pull my not-quite-fully-functional straightjacket till I got my left arm free. From there, I'd easily get out of the thing.

10.30 till 11.45, I had a different therapist, whom I saw Monday through Saturday and was supposed to share all my non-existent feelings with. Today, we had a silent hour-and-fifteen-minute staring contest. I totally murdered Dr Stone--not literally, as I wished.

Noon brought lunch-time, till one PM, when about half my murderously-insane brethren  received secondary medications. I was just brought back to my room to listen to audio-books played over the speakers. Several chapters of a calm, female voice reading _20,000 Leagues Under_ _the Sea_ later, was mine and Dr Bakura's session.

"Always punctual, Doctor," I said, sitting across from him. "I like that in a lover."

"Right," he said, biting his lip. "Um, that's nice. Melvin, would you please co-operate with me today? Last week you didn't seem to be communicating very well. So, let's try again, shall we?"

"We shall," I said, mimicking his high-pitched accent. He made a note on his clipboard.

"Have you been taking your meds?" he murmured, eyes going over his papers on the clipboard. I tilted my head, wondering how to respond to a question just used for filling air--of course I had to take my meds; that's what places like this were made for. He wasn't even paying attention to me.

 "No." I watched his expression. Mild surprise, a slight rise of his eyebrows, before he truly looked at me.

"You haven't been taking them for a while, right?" His question was calm, expecting an affirmative answer.

"Yea." I narrowed my eyes at this strange little Creampuff. Dr Reacher would've thrown first a fit then a handful of meds at me. James Horritz, the second therapist, would've asked me crap about how I was feeling and then secretly get my assistant to check better and force me to take the pills. What would Ryou Bakura do, though?

"I figured as much." He sighed, smiled, then shook his head. "You seem sane enough without them."


	6. Chapter 6

In the weeks that followed, I allowed Ryou Bakura to think we were getting somewhere. I myself even found a childish delight in the doctor's visits, having gone so far as to drop my attempts of playing mind games with him. Our communications were exchanged in that if he wanted me to tell him about my past or anything else I didn't like speaking of, he had to tell me about Yami Bakura.

"He was my first patient," Ryou said, pose relaxed into his chair. "Bakura was actually in this asylum, just as you, but because of a case of schizophrenia no medication could beat out of him. It took me two years, no, thirty months, for me to get him cured and out of here. After that we. . .stayed in touch. No big deal." His second-to-last sentence came with a pink flush and warm smile.

I could only imagine what sort of touches they were, as he didn't tell me more after that on that particular day.

Currently, I was glowering at fifty-or-sixty-something Bartholomew Stone and his struggling sandy goatee. In several hours, I had another session with Ryou, leaving me with no patience for my typical routine. Goatee and all, I was mentally murdering Stone.

"You've seemed distant lately," he croaked, one gnarled hand stroking his prosthetic knee. "Over the past two weeks, you've been moody, impatient and just quiet the rest of the time. Very unlike you, Mr Ishtar. Do you mind telling me exactly what you're thinking?"

"The fact that you get paid too much for your job," I fired off instantly. The old man sighed, body creaking with the motion.

"Do you think it has anything to do with the new medications Dr Bakura prescribed you?"

"I don't know." I bit away a grin, thinking fondly on the "medications" I'd been on for five weeks, since I'd told Ryou about the not-taking-my-pills thing. That Thursday, he'd come in late, clothes in quite a state, a rattling, mid-sized bottle of pills in one hand.

"I have a friend in Domino City, who also had another personality and he's an actor. Still had these." He shook the bottle. "Sugar pills, from a bit roll of a teen who overdosed. Since you aren't taking your pills, I don't want them illegally handed off when you get out. So." Then he bubbled on about what a blooming mess he was in.

"On that topic, how do you like him?" Stone asked, rusty lungs wheezing out, sharp, pungent bursts of air.

"Well," I said, clicking my tongue and fluttering my eyelashes, "he's _such_ a little _charmer_! Oh, he's so totes _daaaaaaaaaaaaarling_ , don't you know? _What_ a _sweetie!_ "

"Sarcasm aside, Ishtar." He "humph"ed, watery blue eyes glowering at me.

"That aside, I want to take him to bed," I said. The burning scowl I got from that was at least an acidic second-degree. But wasn't this the man that told me to speak honestly? While I only said it aloud to piss him off, I did want to lay Ryou, at least once for the pleasure of his thin body and innocent face. In this respect, I liked him, much unlike all previous therapists. Dr Bakura was unlike the rest.

That could be why I held such an affection for him beyond appearances.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been able to update as much recently. >~< AO3's been blocked almost everywhere I can get on a computer, though, so it's harder to even get here. We're in the final stretch, too!
> 
> This chapter marks the half-way point (word-count wise) so I'm excited to be almost done typing up all these super old chapters.

_I really am stupid,_ I thought, pulling my keys out of my pocket. Still, I was riding on a cloud of joy, for whatever reason. Then again, I should've been used to the thrills Melvin allowed. He satisfied me with those eyes, that low voice.

Inside, all the lights were off, loneliness pervading everything. I sighed, dropping into the couch, that happy spark fizzing away. Since I'd gotten the locks changed, Bakura was over about once a week. Never, though, did I let him inside, afraid of potential consequences.

My body drooped now, sliding into the couch as I switched on a lamp, shivering. Maybe I should've gotten a cat, or someone waiting for me at home. Then I wouldn't be so alone all the time, giving me a reason to hurry home, rather than slouch and dilly-dally the way along.

As it was, however, there wasn't a way for me to afford cats or prostitutes (or whatever someone was called who got paid to wait for a childish therapist at his home).

Half-asleep in stupid thoughts, I heard but didn't comprehend the importance of my front door opening and slamming. What I did hear, though, was the harsh timbre of Bakura's voice approaching closer each instant.

"You'll catch a cold sleeping on the couch, Ryou." He was above me, brown eyes shooting warning signals to my brain.

I didn't move, didn't reply, tried not to blink or breathe. After moments of staring at each other, I sighed, the shake I expected not there. "Why are you here?"

"Stupid question; to see you, obviously." He sat beside me, putting an arm around my shoulders. I pulled it off, scootching away.

"That's nice, but," I said, now standing, "no thank you. Isn't your boyfriend waiting for you at home?"

"Marik and I broke up," he said. Bakura also stood, seizing me by the arms, countenance shadowing over. "Stop playing games, Ryou."

Trembles began following my spine as my fingers groped the table behind me. "Bakura, I'm not playing. It's _over._ Now, please, let go of me, go home, find someone else."

"You're the only one," he said, voice falling, head tucking to plant kisses over my throat. I tried, fruitlessly, to jerk away, still searching with my limited mobility for the item on the table. Found it.

"Bakura. . .!" I turned my head from a sudden attempted kiss. "Stop it, or I'll call the police!'

I brandished the mobile at him, one number already typed in. A nasty grimace covered Bakura's face before he let go, backing toward the door. "You'll realise," he said. "You'll see it, Ryou."

Then I was alone again. But this time, I didn't mind so much.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Tell me about your birthday,” I said, pen clutched in my fingers, today asking in the last fifteen minutes of our session. Every session, we started with this sentence. Every session, I got some crap about Melvin’s being raised in a circus. I’d been able to pry and pull information about his life leading up to and after this event, but nothing of that day. Apparently, something horrid had happened—horrid enough that he wouldn’t speak of it.

He stared at me, the saddest look on his face, bringing my heart to ache. Silence. Then, “Tell me about Yami Bakura.”

This was enough of an incentive to pull me into speaking of Bakura. Because whatever I told him would be the price of hearing about his tenth birthday. However, as I searched my mind, I realized Melvin knew as much as I did about Bakura. Well, almost.

“Ah,” I started slowly, furrowing my eyebrows, “he’s been showing up at my house for the past six weeks or so. I don’t—I don’t know why.” I knew damn well why. “He even came in when I left the door unlocked. Crazy, right?” I laughed softly.

Melvin’s eyes narrowed intensely, harsh silence filling the room before he spoke. “Did he hurt you?” he asked. “Don’t tell me nonsense like, ‘oh, I’m so British that I don’t know why just a _friend_ is breaking in!’ I call bull.”

I looked away and exhaled. Honesty was supposed to be easier than this. Easier than thinking of five months that had felt like paradise, too long ago to be flawed. “Back in October, we decided to get together.” I closed my eyes; saw every smile he gave to me. “After a month, I let him have a key to my house. We were bouncing back and forth to each other’s places for a while, but I couldn’t keep doing that at a certain point.  
    “So I thought about it. Figured out that I really didn’t love him. So,” I said, gulping down a breath, “we broke up the day after Valentine’s.” Melvin tilted his head as I bowed mine, still seeing hurt in my old lover’s eyes.

“Harsh. Damn.” Two words, respectfully spoken. “But, recently, did he hurt you when he got in?”

“No.” I shook my head and pushed up my glasses. “Anyway, tell me about your tenth birthday.”

A cloud of reminiscence covered his amethyst eyes. “My own father dragged me into a room for rituals and put me on the altar. Like another petty sacrifice to the gods. The oldest male, for centuries of the gravekeepers’ families have gotten a carving in their skin, in order to retain the knowledge of the location of the pharaoh’s memories. On that altar, my own father heated a knife and opened my flesh, allowing me the ‘honour’ of carrying that curse.”

I shivered, a dark curiosity wondering as to the image of this curse. Melvin continued, “I was born that day, or at least became conscious of my existence as my host and I were bedridden from pain I’ve never felt anything close to. Years later, I sent my host to the depths of despair and hell, using this shared pain to hold over him. I was born out of the deepest traitorous thoughts and agony—how could I be anything but what I am?”

My heart tremoured and I stood, making another sugar-pillesque decision. “Can I see it?”

Melvin shrugged, theatrically wiggling his straightjacketed upper body. I stood right in front of him, leaning down to undo the straps keeping it shut, then pulled away the straightjacket to the floor.

An ocean of burnished gold-bronze muscle and skin met my eyes. Melvin also stood, just in the white trousers, face wearing a gentle expression as I felt my mouth go dry. I should’ve probably been looking away, but damn. Damn. My heart was too loud, as well. Could he hear it?

He turned, my view drastically changing to grey, angry scars in Egyptian text. My body shook for new reasons as a pressure settled behind my eyes, trying to push out tears. I was stupid, really stupid, for crying over this, but the sight of his pain was too much.

I pressed my forehead into Melvin’s back, letting myself cry, really cry, over this. He turned and folded me up into his strong arms while I just shook and cried and wished I’d stop.

“Ryou,” he said, before I felt him stroking my hair, pulling me closer. I leaned into him, my tears slowly ebbing away into hiccups.

Over the course of these weeks, I knew so truly that I was pitching myself toward a cliff. In these minutes, I was finally aware that I had fallen, as the natural course of things went. Thus here I was, sobbing, wanting and not getting.

When I fell silent at last, my hands just grazing the edges of the tattoo that kept making me wince to think of, Melvin sat, pulling me into his lap as he went. We stayed leaned into each other, while I sought out his heartbeat. Ah, here it was, racing in tune with my own heart. I pulled away, needing to preserve professionalism.

I stood, clearing my throat and vigourously wiping my face. “I’m sorry Melvin; I just don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” he said. His face was open, allowing whatever I could want to ask. But I didn’t want to know anything just then, only him.

I nodded, grabbing up his straightjacket. “If you’ll comply, you need to get back into this.”

Melvin stood up again, allowing me to fiddle over the thing, figuring out which way was up. While I murmured at the jacket, I felt smooth skin touch my jawline. When I looked up, it was to purple eyes and fingers tracing my jaw. A distinct pound pressed in my chest.

He leaned forward; I knew what was happening. My fingers loosened on the white material I was holding. We were pushing our bodies toward each other, _knowing_ what came next. My breaths came quicker now, all the while, my skin starting to sweat profusely.

Then what we both knew was coming happened and everything was one tight burst of vibrancy in that kiss. I came alive, my lips on his, his hands cradling my waist. I was coming alive into Melvin Ishtar.

I broke away first, clutching the straightjacket as I gasped for air. Hurriedly, I began putting the thing back over Melvin, enduring his cheeky grin. “Hey, Ryou? I think I really, really like you.”

“Oh, look! Our session’s over,” I said, snatching up my clipboard, ignoring my warm cheeks and rushing to the door.

I couldn’t do this. He was a patient. I was his doctor. Not just that, though; he was _insane_ , no matter how sane he presented himself. There was my own state, too—overly-cautious, too shy to have even realised what’d been happening before now.

Put simply? I was a bloody mess and one who wasn’t ready for a love I wasn’t allowed to pursue. Now, I had to put those feeling behind me, and move away from these emotions.

Despite the sinking feeling that went with the thought.


	9. Chapter 9

Jostled along in the train, I kept a tight grip on my mobile and the music coming out of it. There were only seven words I could hear, though: _“_ _I think I really, really like you.”_ The words, the smile, together a spark in my thrumming chest.

The train stopped, letting out crowds. I started the walk home, knowing that I couldn’t have Melvin. There was a desire, a buzz that I felt, but professional distance was necessary and I was old enough to have some self-control. Right?

I fiddled at my shirt buttons, dragging my feet along the pavements. It was cold at home. I’d be alone at home.

There were still trembles when I thought of his lips pressed into mine, as well as his bare chest and its feel. _That’s enough,_ I chastised myself. _If you can’t have him, don’t think of him other than as a patient._

However, the cliché held true—easier said than done. I frowned, turned up the volume to the song I was listening to, tucked my hands in my jeans pocket and even tried taking out the earbuds. All the time, though, it was there: A kiss I’d been given.

I jangled my keys, pausing to turn off my phone, which was almost dead, anyway. Sighing, I let my pace reach a normal gait. Tonight, I wouldn’t be ordering take-away, but rather making my own dinner. Ah, joy.

 _Is it love?_ I thought, biting my lip. _Have I been a complete **idiot** and fallen in love with a maniac?_

It could’ve been possible. It could be just some kind of veiled lust, where I loved only his looks. Oh, the clichés I was fulfilling. I was like the protagonist for a trashy novel or something. This was the kind of thing I would’ve told Bakura months ago, when we still sat around together and laughed at ourselves. That was gone, though and I was alone, just me by myself.

Now I could see my house and increased my pace to get home. Making the most of it was all I could do, so it’d be done with a ham and a television programme.

I unlocked the door and let myself in, sitting at the shadowed counter. Love wasn’t supposed to hurt people before they even got together. Therefore, life sucked. Whenever life sucked, I’d toss down whatever was bothering me and have some alcohol—now would be no exception.

As I stood, I heard a noise which made me stop. It sounded like a person in my house. Slowly, I looked over my shoulder to watch the shadows allow a form to rise toward me, saying my name, reaching for me.

_Bakura._


	10. Chapter 10

“Where the hell is Ryou Bakura?” I heard over my afternoon meal. The Suit Guy, some important bloke always strolling about in his suit, complaining. This, however, caught my interest. “He hasn’t been here since Thursday and hasn’t called, either.”

“I _told_ you he’d run off one day. It’s those eyes. My sister’s ex-husband had eyes _just_ like that,” Suit Guy’s secretary, Talky Lady, said. I rolled my eyes, allowing my assistant to push bean soup into my mouth. The being fed angle wasn’t so bad, really.

“You’ve called him as I instructed, yes?” Suit Guy whirled around, poking a fat finger at Talky Lady. She nodded, saying crap about how his machine picked up. I kept quiet, listening as well as I could till the pair were out of hearing range.

“Guess you won’t have that therapist to talk to today, huh?” My assistant smiled, a wan smile, honey-brown hair falling in his eyes. Given a chance, I’d screw this kid, too. He was just eighteen and had a name I’d forgotten before he spoke it.

All I actually knew was that he was from Australia, or stayed there during high school or something and moved into this area about a year ago.

“Do you know how many patients he has?” I asked, staring at the sharp, angular back of Talky Lady, juxtaposing it to the fat form of Suit Guy.

“Um, maybe twenty? I don’t know.” He shook his head, glancing down at his phone, which rang with a text. I looked at the displayed name: Miyagi. I bet on some cute girlfriend waiting at home.

“Go tell Suit Guy I know where Ryou is,” I said, glaring at the tabletop. The stupid limey probably got himself kidnapped by his ex-schizophrenic friend. Idiot. Today was when I would’ve seen him again and we could’ve talked about the kiss.

“Where—“

“Go.” He shut his mouth at my command, bowing his head before crossing the room to speak to Suit Guy, who the assistant had correctly guessed the identity to. They shared words, before they came back to me.

“You know where Dr Bakura is?” Suit Guy leaned toward me, saying the words slowly.

“Yea, there’s this guy who keeps going to his house. He probably—“

Suit Guy huffed. “Mr Takatski,” he said, glaring at the assistant, “we’re in an _asylum_ for a reason; these people are insane. Next time, don’t waste my precious time.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, eyes narrowing and jaw setting. I wasn’t used to such an expression on the mild face.

But I had better things to think about, such as Ryou, the moron who’d gone missing, just as I decided I loved him.


	11. Chapter 11

By Wednesday, no one cared where Ryou was; I assumed he was labelled as having quit. But there was an unease in my mind. Thursday afternoon, listening to _Around the World in Eighty Days_. It was 3.30, with no British therapist.

I hadn’t told Dr Stone about our kiss, about how I’d enjoyed holding him or that maybe I sort of loved him.

My assistant wasn’t waiting around on me, since usually I was with Ryou now. Without him there, though, I recalled the conversation with Suit Guy from a few days ago. They’d just presumed I was crazy, as had every therapist before Dr Bakura.

Even if they didn’t trust me, though, I knew more about why he’d be missing than whatever resume or file they had on him would tell. They didn’t know he lived fifteen minutes from a train station or that Yami Bakura was chasing after him.

I remembered bits and pieces of little pleasantries he’d babble about; the name of the train he took every day, the name of his neighbour’s dog, the big three-storey blue house two streets down.

In fact, I could probably find his house if I got out of here. What was stopping me, though? My image? The food here? Not a damn thing. Besides that, Ryou was _my_ responsibility now, given that he was my therapist and I really liked him.

Should Yami Bakura have harmed him, I decided, squirming my left arm, which came out easier than usual. I glanced up to the security camera, narrowing my eyes. Without my assistant’s help, I couldn’t get out unnoticed.

But Blah-Blah Takatski was on break and probably valued his job too much to help me. I grit my teeth, knowing this was going down one way or the other, with only one chance to get out of my cell.

♪♪♪

At four o’ clock, I was standing right up close to the door, one arm free and tucked into the straightjacket. Footsteps—the assistant was approaching. I heard a mechanical _ping_ of the system verifying his security badge.

Then he opened the door, sliding in. I jammed my foot in the empty space, before the door could close, whipping out my arm to deliver a sharp punch, uppercutting his jaw.

The camera recorded it all and soon alarms would be going off. I shed the heavy straightjacket, snatched at the kid’s badge and was out the door as quickly as possible.

Then there were the alarms. Shouts, running footsteps. I bolted down two sets of stairs, cursing almost five months of limited activity. Once a week getting two hours outside wasn’t enough.

I slid into a storage closet, catching my breath and looking for the janitor’s orange vest, which fit over my chest better than I’d hoped. It was zipped, with loose change rattling in the pocket.

The closet was inhabited for three hours, till dinner. That was when I slid into the evening, moving quietly toward the train station. _On my way,_ I thought, trying to send that to Ryou. _Hang on._


	12. Chapter 12

After a disorienting train ride I barely managed to pay for, I stumbled out of the station into a dusky, almost nighttime, sky.

Breathing deeply, I set off at a brisk pace, going into a stranger’s yard. One foot nestled safely in the chainlink, the rest of my body swung to the other side. This operation were best done at midnight, but now was alright.

The guy’s rickety shed had no lock, but nothing of value—just rusty old lawn-work tools. But these were what I’d been hoping on.

“One axe, coming up,” I muttered to myself, snatching up the tool. Ryou’s house shouldn’t’ve been far and an axe was _always_ good to carry about, no matter what people disagreed.

The weight was a familiar comfort in my hand while I got back over the fence,, the swing and exhilaration bringing back memories. I lingered over this, then set off, streetlamps guiding me to a big, blue-painted house. Two streets down, as expected, there was a quaint, oh-so-British, white-painted house. As opposed to its neighbours, this home had no lights on inside.

 _Bingo._ This had to be his house—no normal person lived in such limeyness.

The wooden porch cracked under my footfalls as I tried the door, which was unlocked. Inside, all was dark and silent. I gripped my “borrowed” axe tightly, exhaled and made my way down the hall to a closed bedroom door. There’d been axe murders before, only for pleasure. This was different.

For the first time, I felt a true grudge, more than something petty, actual anger. My heart raced against Yami Bakura. My hands held this weapon, ready to strike.

I opened the door.

Ryou was bound to his bed, eyes wide and mouth gagged. A man knelt over his body, one knee on either side of his hips, cascades of white hair falling down his back.. When the door opened, he turned his head sharply, Ryou’s shirt hanging loosely from his hands.

I knew what I could do. Every part of this little scene was wrong, lighting my instincts. I stalked forward, using the flat of my axe blade to smash in his face before he could react.

The man fell to the floor and I heard a gentle whimper from Ryou. I raised the axe, both hands grasping the handle. In this swift instant, it came down, breaking open the skull of this person who’d dared to touch _my_ therapist.

I dropped the axe, going to Ryou. First, I unbound his wrists, then the gag, pulling him into a sitting position. He trembled, voice starting and stopping in a choked whisper. I silenced him by pulling his shirtless body against mine.

For a few minutes, he cried and shook and clutched me. When he was calmer, I tipped his chin up, pressing our lips together. Ryou inhaled slowly, then collapsed into me, leaning up to my mouth with his whole body while my hands trailed over his thin back.

“I think I—no, damnit, I _love_ you, Ryou Bakura,” I said once we’d pulled apart.

He opened his mouth, shut it, spoke; “I-I love you too, Melvin. But how—“

“Shh. Will you be a runaway with me and be in a hell of a lot of trouble if we get caught?”

“My job. . .”

“Basically fired.”

“But I shouldn’t.” He frowned, cheek resting on my shoulder.

“Do you love me?”

“Yea. Yes.” Ryou let out a shuddering sigh, meeting my eyes.

“Then come with me,” I said, sliding my hands over his body, loving every centimetre of it. “You can have everything.”

He laughed, idly unzipping and re-zipping the vest I was wearing. “With a criminal?”

“One who’s made it this far.”

“My reasoning must not be working right,” Ryou murmured, leaving the orange vest open. His small hands pressed against my skin.

“Why? ‘Cause you’re gonna’ say yes?”

“Yes. My life is weird.” His gaze shifted to the man’s corpse—Yami Bakura.

I grinned, grabbing Ryou into me. He snuggled close, arms going about me. “I love you,” he said. “I really do.”

“Well, I love you, too.”

And I did, really would—for as long as we could live.

\- The c End -


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